


My Immortal

by ficnchicken



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor dies, Connor is deviant, F/M, Gen, I wouldn't call it 100 percent happy, M/M, Other, but it's up there somewhere, has been for a while, identity crisis, not a bad end, not specified how long, reader is gender-neutral, talk about identity and life post-mortem ahjshs, temporarily, this can be read as completely platonic or pre-relationship, this is post-Pacifist run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficnchicken/pseuds/ficnchicken
Summary: LOOk, stay. I know the title struck you with fear, but this isn't that. It just fits, you'll see. Couldn't pass up the opportunity. Now for the actual summary:You don't know what to think when he returns, or when he tries to talk to you. Connor is dead—so is it really possible he's alive?
Relationships: Connor & Reader, Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	My Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks [TinyChubbyBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyChubbyBird/pseuds/TinyChubbyBird) for helping me with some parts <3

"Connor! Connor, what—"

You ran to his falling form, the retreating criminal not on your mind anymore. Connor had managed to cuff him before he was—

Someone else would take over. You carefully turned him over to his back, and that's when you fell silent. A river of blue was coursing from the center of his torso. Hastily moving the ripped and sticky fabric out of the way, you immediately saw what was so very wrong.

His regulator was damaged, probably beyond repair. If it had been pierced by a regular bullet he would most likely have been fine, but by a shotgun slug?

You sat there, not knowing what to do. It's not like you can press against the injury to tame the bleeding while waiting for help. He's not human in that way. Your hand shook above his wound and you pressed down anyway, because what else was there left to do? You weren't trained for this.

"Have you called for an ambulance?" you asked him, not receiving an answer. "Connor?"

"Mmh," he managed through distortion and static.

You nodded. Okay, okay, an ambulance was on its way, you just needed to wait and—

You made a mistake. You looked down into Connor's eyes, and in them was fear, merging into resignation, and finally into nothing. He hadn't said anything—what _do_ you say at a time like this? Instead he let his eyes talk, while they still had any emotion in them.

"...Connor?"

You knew he was gone, the reasonable part of you told you this. But the hopeful, emotional, _childish_ part of you screamed that it wasn't possible. He couldn't be.

You realized you were still applying pressure with your hand, it was unnecessary—it had always been. You stared at it—your shaking, blue hand—and the more you tried to stabilize it, the less control you had over it. The smell was largely unsettling; sharp and cold and clean in your nose the way a sanitized hospital room was, not at all like the metallicity you associated with red. You tore your attention away, cradling your lifeless friend as close to you as physics allowed. The _back_ of your hand brushed away the strands hiding his forehead, so as to not dye it in blue as well, and you placed a kiss on his forehead, like parents do for their slumbering children.

Loud sirens started making their way to you now, and the closer they came the more it echoed and hurt in your ears. You swatted away the sound, but strangely it just morphed into another loud, annoying one. You raised your heavy head from the couch where you'd taken a nap, sighing as you turned off the alarm.

You didn't know how long you just lay there staring at the wall, your mind completely blank. But you knew that you wouldn't get all the time in the world to do so when the doorbell's ring sounded out throughout your home.

You didn't feel like getting up, nor like greeting the person that had intruded on your thoughtless wall-staring. You just wanted to be left alone with your thoughts and non-thoughts for a bit, to somehow deal with all the chaos and turmoil of emotions inside of you. It wasn't easy moving on when Connor's life had flickered away in your arms, his blood leaking—pouring—onto your hands and clothes, through the fabric, and onto your skin, dyeing you in blue. You were pretty sure your skin was still tinted in that cool hue, even after the long shower that day and the meticulous scrubbing, not to mention the showers after that. You hoped it wasn't permanent, you didn't want this morbid reminder. You could still feel it on you—could still feel the weight of his dead body in your arms, still hear his worried, static hum of right before he died, and still see the flood of emotions in his eyes whenever you closed yours.

_And the biting smell—_

You knew he could come back, you knew he _would_. Markus had made sure that androids would get something like a life insurance, and while you weren't sure if revival was normally included in that, you knew it was in _Connor's_ thanks to his inherent ability to do so... and the spare bodies. Luckily, these days it was no longer legal to fiddle with an android's memories. Still, that didn't mean it wasn't possible.

But after two days of dealing with the awful, empty feeling of losing your closest friend and colleague, _seeing_ the very person you witnessed dying in your arms didn't make it any better. You had been on your lunch break when Connor found you, eating outside in an attempt at escape from your co-workers, not feeling up to the usual banter and casual talk. He had sat down next to you, and you had been so lost in thought that it'd taken you a solid moment until you recognized his scent. The one you'd picked out for him when you'd gotten distracted smelling the eau de whatevers on display—along with a few new clothing articles _as had been the plan_ —and he wore it now as if it was his own body's. It was faint, didn't attack your nose as much as the stench of many humans, but it was there, and Connor's scent was something you'd recognize anywhere; it was very close to the scent of petrichor and something subtly citric. You'd made a good find that day. This day, it made your stomach turn.

Connor had probably known you wouldn't react too well, as he had given you enough space and time to acknowledge his presence, but you still hadn't been ready to see him again so soon. Strange, since you'd wanted nothing more than to hug him close and never let go after seeing the life drain from his eyes, but the moment you'd actually seen him, you knew you couldn't. The thought that it wasn't the Connor you were holding through his death—that this was the body of someone else, essentially a clone of your friend only holding a copy of the same memories—made you break down all over again.

You'd been sent home early that day to recover. Captain Fowler hadn't given you much work to do anyway; he would have rather wanted you to seek out a professional, and maybe he would order you to do so now after what happened. He'd probably wanted to wait until the new Connor was back as well, to see if you'd get better, but you were sure your breakdown hadn't exactly been signaling that.

Connor hadn't said much to you, knowing it would only have made it worse. He'd done what he could to help you calm down and hadn't followed you home afterwards when he had realized you'd needed still more time. But you'd seen the way his eyes had shimmered in the light before you'd left, and it made your heart clench painfully, knowing it was your fault.

He didn't attempt talking to you again the day after. That day was today, and even though you'd barely done any work and _just_ took a nap, you were exhausted.

There was another attempt at the doorbell, and you sighed. You couldn't exactly pretend to be asleep or absent, since your lights were still on and your car was outside. You overweighed just ignoring the person behind the door, but concluded that would be rude, so you got up. You had no idea who would visit you at this hour. Or maybe you did. You just couldn't make yourself think about it—

Which was why you shut the door as soon as you realized who it was.

Connor called your name softly, and though his voice was muffled by the door, you could still hear the worry in it. And the static—no. There was no static. You leaned your head against the door, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You were being an ass. Connor—or this person—didn't deserve to be treated like this. It wasn't his fault. You just needed to get your shit together, enough to look at him without immediately remembering the way he'd looked when he just ceased to exist as you held him. He'd looked so scared. _Stop remembering_.

"I will leave if you want me to," Connor said, voice gentle and careful, as if talking to a frightened animal, "but I... I've been worried. And I also came to apologize."

You knew he wanted to say more but was holding himself back for your sake. You ground your teeth together and willed yourself to open the damn door again, not meeting his eyes. Before he could so much as open his mouth, you interrupted him; "I'm sorry."

Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see him tilting his head—a gesture he seemed to hold on to despite his death. You let out a quick sigh. "I'm sorry for... well, for everything. It's not like I'm the only one who's having a hard time, and if I were you, I would have preferred a 'welcome-back-hug' over… over what I did. I'm sorry for pushing you away like that. I just... I don't know..."

"You don't need to apologize for that, Detective. Humans have trouble dealing with situations like this. I understand."

You managed to lift your gaze to his face at his calling you "Detective," and he smiled gently. Even though you were friends, he still called you by your title, even outside of work. You found it a little endearing, so you never complained. He'd been elated when you'd told him he could just call you by your name, like it was the ultimate confirmation that you were indeed friends, but you guessed it was a habit of his to be formal, and it was too sweet to try to stop him from doing so. Though, you had this theory that he did it not to be formal anymore, but because you liked it.

"May I come in? Or would you like me to leave?"

You knew he would leave without a complaint or question if you asked him to, but to your positive surprise and relief, you actually wanted him to stay. So you opened the door a little wider and stepped aside. Connor's whole face lit up at that, and you couldn't decide if the squeezing of your heart was a comfortable warmth, or pain.

He wiped his shoes on your doormat before entering your home; what the plan was from here on forward, you didn't know. You moved to the living room to take a seat on the couch once again, Connor behind you, but careful not to come too close. He left an empty space between you on the three-seater couch when he joined you. You picked at your hangnails as you wished for him to speak, because you couldn't bear the silence, but you also didn't have anything to break the thick ice with.

"I'm sorry," he started, to your relief, "that I wasn't careful enough."

"It's okay. Or well, it's not _okay_ , but you know... it's not your fault. And I mean, you could've been more careful, but this is what we signed up for when we got this job, right? We could get shot on the field any day, it's risky. Besides, it's that asshole's fault if anything, so yeah, it's... okay, in a way."

You were too good at rambling, but Connor didn't seem to mind. He looked at you for a good moment, probably evaluating you or the situation, or both. He was like that—precise—unlike you. Maybe he was still the same Connor.

"I'm sorry for what you had to experience."

"Again, Connor, I'm not the only one afflicted," you reminded him. Connor was a tough one, because while you knew he was hurting, you had no idea as to what extent. He hid it well, unlike you. "How are you coping?"

You heard a small ping and looked over to see Connor had at some point taken out his coin. "I'm doing alright," and more like an afterthought, he added, "It's a bit challenging getting used to the reactions I get from people, but they're not permanent, I think. I'm also getting used to the fact that I... died. But I'm doing alright, and I'm glad you're letting me talk to you."

You were happy he didn't just leave you at the initial "I'm alright," but you tried not to sigh and look down at the mention of his death. Instead, you managed a small smile for him. You decided to somewhat switch topics, not wanting to linger in this field too long. "Your memories... are they all...?"

"There?" he finished for you. "Yes. They're there."

_As if he'd know if he forgot something._

You nodded. "Okay, that's... that's good."

You fell into an awkward silence again. You peered up at Connor who seemed to be eyeing something on the coffee table, his LED spinning in yellow. Shit, it was the book you'd decided to try refamiliarizing yourself with just yesterday. A book that you didn't want Connor to know you were reading. Still, you merely watched as he leaned forward and picked it up. What were you supposed to do? Rip it out of his hands and make yourself more suspicious? He probably knew all about the book anyway the second his eyes landed on it. Maybe he's even had the time to read it by now. But if that wasn't the case... well, then 'You Times Two' wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

" 'You Times Two' by Kelvin Oakwell," he said, not betraying his thoughts in neither face nor voice, "revered author within the literary world of metaphysics, chiefly applied to our contemporary society and the hypothetical hereafter. His works have landed him numerous awards, seven pertaining to this one in particular. It gained significant traction after receiving a very positive review, as well as securing a generous donation to the author, from Elijah Kamski."

When he was finished with the Wikipedia page, he flipped the book and glanced at its back before returning it to the coffee table. "The book centers around the psychological aspects of whole brain emulation and its resulting sense of self," he said, emotion slipping through this time.

The skin by your nail had started to bleed from your picking, to which Connor stood up and asked you where you kept the "adhesive bandages." He left for his new mission, and you were left agonizing over what was to come. You'd probably talk, and you'd most likely talk about "the psychological aspects of whole brain emulation and its resulting sense of self." You still hadn't gathered your thoughts on the topic. You still didn't know what to think about the _new_ Connor, the _different_ Connor.

_The undead Connor._

He was gone, and yet he was here. It gave you a headache, and it gave you anxiety. You wanted to forget about everything that happened and just go back to normal. To be glad that your friend had returned from the dead, to be glad that he had been given another chance. Again. You knew he had died before. Then he came back, like the immortal being he was. But back then, he hadn't been _alive_ ; so, naturally, he couldn't die. He was just a machine, replaced by another machine. Maybe. You weren't about to dwell on that. But now? Connor had been _alive_ before he had been dead. And even if Connor was _alive_ once again, was he really _Connor_?

If the Connor now had existed at the same time as the Connor then—the last Connor—he wouldn't have been him. They would've been regarded as two different people. So then... could he really be _him_ , just because _he_ didn't exist anymore? Just because they didn't exist at the same time?

Maybe talking to him would clear things up, maybe it would make up your mind. But it could very well end up hurting you, hurting him. Maybe he didn't feel like he was Connor. Maybe he felt like he had a stolen identity, or maybe he didn't feel like he had an identity at all. He was probably just as confused as you, and you were ashamed you hadn't thought about that.

"Give me your hand."

You were startled out of your thoughts, and absentmindedly gave him your hand for him to tend to. He just stared at it, resting in his own, with this weird expression on his face for a moment, then that moment was gone and your finger was plastered. He stored away the paper in some pocket of his as he sat down once again. You held the bandaged finger in your other hand, staring through the book on the table. It hit you then that Connor had super-eyesight with Thirium-detecting qualities. That moment... he was probably trying to keep a cool head as he had to touch it— _hold_ it—your Thirium-drenched hand. _His_ Thirium. Blood. His blood. _Was_ it his? No, you had washed it all away—God, you hoped you had—but only he could know for sure. You were not going to ask. Maybe— _please_ —it was clean; not bloody, just tinted. Dyed. Died.

Like Connor did.

You weren't conscious enough to notice how long it took for either of you to speak again. Connor could tell you the exact time, down to the picoseconds, probably. You were not going to ask.

"Am I correct in assuming the book has something to do with... with..."

The Connor you knew didn't often falter when he spoke. This had to be a difficult topic for him as well, if he was anything like your Connor. He pocketed his hand and soon the paper started rustling.

"...with my—Connor's death... and my presence?"

It was already emotionally difficult separating the two in your head, but hearing him do the same out loud was even worse. You didn't want him to differentiate between Connor and himself, even if they might not be the same; perhaps because it would convince you sooner or later if _he_ believed them to be. You didn't answer because you knew you would cry. It sucked.

He didn't say anything either for a long time. Maybe he, too, would cry if he did. You were skeptical.

"I... I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am, or who I want to be. Who I'm even allowed to be," he explained, far from being done.

He hadn't exactly said it, but you knew what he truly meant. He wasn't talking about a general "who"—the common quest of finding yourself. It was much more specific than that, because he was unsure of whether or not he was _Connor_. Whether he wanted to be Connor and whether he was allowed to be. You weren't sure if you were particularly appreciative of this translation handed to you by yourself, it made his confession all the more sour, and you didn't have answers.

"I feel like him, but then I remember that I'm merely alive because he died. The memories and the feelings _I_ have are only duplicates placed in a different drive, in a different body... and you wouldn't call a replica the original. Perhaps it's more comparable to Theseus' ship... or even plagiarism. Point is, nothing about me ever belonged to him, yet I still feel like I lived his life. When I... he uploaded his memory during those final seconds, he allocated all of his energy to it. That's why I—he didn't say anything to you before I... he... sorry," he took a breather—to which you could relate—and you weren't exactly sure if he was apologizing for his inconsistent use of first and third person perspective or for dying a wordless death. You _didn't_ think about which was worse to apologize for. "He really wanted to live. All that effort... for me, a _continuation_ of _him_ ," he said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

His voice had become increasingly tight and pained the more he spoke, like when you're moments away from losing control of your tear ducts. It was hard to listen without your own throat constricting.

"And I feel like I failed him. Failed myself, maybe—and you and Hank. Like my entire existence is a mistake, and maybe it is. I was never supposed to be this problematic. I was just supposed to come back and continue where I left off, supposed to just be Connor—and maybe I am. Maybe I'm just Connor with an added identity crisis. Maybe this is how it's supposed to be when you die and come back, and maybe there isn't an answer to who I am. I might be Connor, while I'm also not. I don't think it's possible to be purely one or the other, in my case. It just... feels like more than I can handle."

You indulged your lungs with a big, shaky breath, trying not to get whiplash from unpacking everything that Connor had crammed into his vent session. But you found your words now—there was something urgent you needed to get across.

"Whoever you are, or whoever you decide to be," you braced yourself and looked into his eyes, wanting to get the gravity across, "you're not a mistake. Please don't ever feel like you're a mistake."

It had hurt when he said it, that he would even think it. For one, he was a perfect rendition of Connor, visually _and_ otherwise. That meant he responded the way Connor would, had he been in the same situation.

He _was_ Connor in this situation. And Connor now thought he was a mistake.

For another, Connor went through all that he did... succeeded in uploading himself just before he died and got resurrected like he wanted... just to call it a _mistake_.

You'd be furious if you weren't so hurt.

Then you saw something wet and shiny on his cheek, and words escaped you again. You had thought with so much certainty that you'd be first on that front. You instinctively closed the one-seat space between you and wrapped your arms around him in what you hoped was a comforting embrace. You rubbed his back with your palm, and thought about something to say once the initial silence was up. You thought back to the inspiring, hopeful words in the song of the revolution. That meant something to androids, right? Would it be offensive for you to repeat it? Too much?

"Maybe we should try to step back and stop overthinking this and just... navigate everything as it comes. It's no use thinking too much about it of it's not a problem we can fix, right? And... who says this is a problem? It's probably just our minds—making it into one. So we just have to step back"—you gently extracted yourself from the hug and swooped the book off the table, putting it back on a shelf to collect dust again—"and stop thinking so much," you concluded, turning back to Connor's yellow LED; a telltale sign of thoughts aplenty. You sighed, softening your expression. "I know it's easier said than done, but will you try if I try?"

He only looked up at you when you sat back down on the couch, your hand squeezing his shoulder. Simultaneously, his LED turned blue. "Alright. I will try," he said, and while his expression wasn't free of pain, his eyes _were_ free of tears—and that was progress. You smiled something small yet earnest for him.

In one way or another, you ended up sat on the ground and leaning against the couch, watching TV; Connor's insistence at sharing the couch _seats_ going through one ear and out the other. It was just a floor kind of day, and on top of that, Connor occupied the whole length of the couch lying down, and he looked damn comfortable doing it.

"You talked to Hank about any of this?"

He grimaced subtly. "Not much. He asked me if I wanted to talk, but I got the impression that he'd rather not and asked merely out of a sense of obligation. I didn't particularly want to talk either, in case he wasn't already thinking that I'm not... Connor."

You knitted your eyebrows in thought, maybe his finding the book was good. You wouldn't have talked like this otherwise, and while it was a difficult one, it turned out okay. Better than before.

"Can I ask you personal question?" you repeated one of his signature phrases with some semblance of life in your voice, then you added, "About the incident. It's okay if not."

"You can ask."

"How..." you started, there was still time to back out. You decided not to. "How does it feel like? Dying."

"Oh."

"You don't have to answer, I know it's a tough question."

"It... It feels... Personally, it felt like..." he tried, really tried, to give you something satisfactory—probably. You felt bad for having asked. "I feel like my own experien...ces correspond with the notion that your life passes before you when you die. Though it's a more intriguing phenomenon in humans, as the cause can easily be explained for why it happens to us—or, well, me. Since I upload all of my data before I... am about to shut down, I see all of my memories while they are uploading. It's... very overwhelming. After that there's... I wake up. I don't remember anything between the upload and... the reboot in a new vessel."

You felt anchored to where you sat, deep in the sea, to the depth where the pressure collapses your lungs and you can't say a word. You shouldn't have asked. You wanted to know, but you shouldn't have asked. He was so shaken up and you just—

" _Body_ , sorry," he said, and it took you two moments to connect it to his previous sentence.

You shook your head. "No, I'm sorry. Thank you for answering."

He didn't respond and you went back to quietly watching the television, if that's what you could call it—the watching, not the television—as you were barely aware of what it was showing. You had a lot of thoughts to think about.

"I'm happy you're back," you said, finally. When he insisted on being quiet, you continued, "I am. I know I freaked out that time and then a little again... but I'm really happy you're back."

Your delivery of that last part was cracked and teary, because of course you couldn't hold off—but still, it had taken you some time to get to that point. You had to remind yourself that was irrelevant, it was okay to cry in front of your friend. Something shuffled behind you, and then your shoulder was weighted down by a hand, a mirror of your own actions earlier. Still, it was quiet. Just for a little longer, though.

"Thank you."

You covered his hand with yours, your thumb busying itself with those comforting circles.

You tilted your head in his direction, smiling despite all the reasons not to. Smiling for all the reasons _to_.

"Everything will be alright."

And when he smiled in return—that precious way only Connor does—you believed in your own words.

**Author's Note:**

> I pulled Kelvin Oakwell and his accomplishments straight outta my ass.
> 
> So, story behind the title:
> 
> At some point when reading through this, I thought it would be pretty fitting and funny to name this "My Immortal," after the infamous fic of the same name. Then, I thought of the song, and then naturally the band. So now it was between My Immortal and Evanescence, because the meaning of the latter is Also rather fitting. But My Immortal is funnier so that's that. I also want to say that I was held at gunpoint by [TinyChubbyBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyChubbyBird/pseuds/TinyChubbyBird) when I consulted them about the title, so I didn't have a choice anymore. It had to be named one of these things ahsbjf
> 
> Also, I almost created a new pseud just to have this be My Immortal by Evanescence, but that would've been too extra.


End file.
